The World Over
by shannygoat
Summary: Ivar the Boneless and Daenerys Targaryen find themselves unlikely allies. But each has something that the other needs to get them what they want. He has the tactical skill to take her all the way to Kings Landing. She has the dragon army that will give him all of England, possibly Norway. Will they be each other's savior or demise?
1. Ivar the Terrible

The voyage from Kattegat west to England took was roughly three weeks by ship. That is how long it had taken the Great Heathen Army, led by Björn Ironside and his brothers, to travel from their home to kill King Aelle of Northumbria. Early spring had brought minimally choppy waters. The weather was warm enough during the day to require the Viking hoard to only require wool and leathers, and at night light furs.

The gods had blessed them with only two small storms during their entire voyage to the land of the Christians. Neither storm had been so severe that any member of their party took ill, or any of their supplies were damaged. Odin had shown the Northmen great favor as they set out to avenge their fallen King.

King Ragnar Lothbrok was the most famous Viking in all of Scandinavia. He had returned to Wessex the year before the Great Army set sail, with his youngest son, Ivar. Years ago, Ragnar had been granted land in Wessex by King Ecbert for his people to start a small settlement, only later to learn that his fellow Vikings had been killed by the Christians. It had always been his dream to be able to farm on lush and fertile grounds and the soil in England was meant to be farmed.

The damp weather in Wessex was conducive to farming. The earth was often damp and squishy. The wind carried a smell of freshly turned soil on every breeze. Wessex was the type of place that a farmer was destined to yield a good crop. It was were Ragnar knew that his kinfolk needed to relocate go in order to grow food that was necessary for their continued survival.

Farming in Denmark was getting harder. The soil was sandy and the weather was cold. Not much vegetation grew there – not enough to sustain their ever-growing population. The gods had blessed the Northmen with the ability to grow crops to feed their livestock, and the meat from those animals fed the villages. But Ragnar wondered how long would that last? The soil in Kattegat had been turned too many times. The gods gave him visions of moving his people to somewhere more fruitful, where they could farm and continue their way of life.

But, Ragnar's had moved far from being that simple farmer. He no longer had the small family he adored with his wife, Lagertha, and two children Björn and Gyda. His daughter, Gyda, was taken to Valhalla, way before her time; and his wife lost their unborn son in childbirth. Ragnar later had an affair with the völva, Aslaug, which led to the birth of a second son, Ubbe. Though he was promised many sons, the Seer never told him that his beloved Lagertha and Björn would leave him in the process.

Ragnar knew that the god of mischief, Loki, was behind the irony of his destiny. He eventually married Aslaug, though he never truly loved her. Together they brought forth three more sons - Hvitserk, Sigurd Snake in the Eye, and Ivar the Boneless. It took nearly 16 winters for Ragnar to forge a relationship with his youngest son, the boy that he had tried to leave in the woods to be killed by the elements or taken by wildlife. But on the trip to Wessex, Ragnar and Ivar finally bonded. It was during that trip, that Ragnar Lothbrok learned he was to be killed by King Aelle and told his son, Ivar, to avenge his death. That is exactly what the youngest of the sons of Ragnar had done.

Ivar and his brothers had put together the greatest Viking army the world had ever seen to travel across the great sea to personally deliver all of those who had a hand in killing their father, to the goddess Hel. But, it seemed that Loki had just as much in store for the younger Lothbroks as the elder. Before the brothers could leave the land of the Christians, Ivar killed his older brother, Sigurd.

Now, all but two of the brothers' Lothbrok found themselves on separate ships heading back to their home in Kattegat. Already at sea for more than three weeks, they seemed no closer to home then they had when he set sail 30 days ago.

* * *

"You are certain we are still on the path back to Kattegat?" Ivar Lothbrok sat perched on a treasure chest pushed up against the left side of the langskip. He had a thick rope used to raise and lower the sails wrapped around his arm to help keep him grounded to his spot. "We should all be enjoying a tall horn of ale by now!" Angry that he was unable to get up and walk around the vessel, Ivar rolled his cold blue eyes at the thought of spending another day on the ship. He would never tell any of his fellow Vikings that he was uncomfortable and the cramped conditions of sailing did not fare well with his disease.

The weather was miserable. There was a dense fog that seemed to surround each of the ships making it virtually impossible to see any other vessel. It had rained for the last five nights and four days. This was not just any rain, either. It was a freezing rain – like little blades of razor-sharp ice slicing through the air at your face, neck and hands during at night. The weather during the day wasn't much better with the ferocious thunderstorms that pushed half of the sea into their boat.

Running his hands through his dark brown hair, Ivar squeezed the water from his long ponytail that hung at his shoulders. Trying to ignore the rain and saltwater dripping into his eyes, he sighed and clasped his hand around the arm ring given to him by his father. "Ragnar, show us to land soon," he said quiet enough so no one else could hear him.

He flexed his fingers, which were pruned, in his black half gloves. He was soaked to the bone. The heavy fur coat he wore did little to keep him warm, it felt as though it was just washed in the ocean itself. He was tired of being wet. His coat was wet. His blankets were wet. His clothes were wet. His boots were wet - if he did not remove them soon, he risked getting foot rot. The food was wet. Even his stools were wet, courtesy of inadvertently drinking saltwater.

"When I kill Lagertha and become King of Kattegat, I will no longer go on raids. I will send others to raid on my behalf," he said matter-of-factly, to no one in particular. "I no longer enjoy sailing."

A soft chuckle came from behind him, "Ivar, you are the youngest brother. You have almost no claim to the throne," Ubbe said putting both hands on Ivar's shoulders. Leaning up to whisper in his brother's ear, he continued, "Besides, do you think you deserve the throne after what you did to Sigurd?" With a good-natured double pat, Ubbe stood up and balanced himself as he walked over to the edge of the ship, unzipped his pants and relieved himself over the side.

"You are aware that will blow back on all of us? Hmm, Ubbe?" Ivar said rolling his eyes. "All this wind," he circled his finger in the air to show his brother how strong the winds were blowing. His face held annoyance when Ubbe shrugged suggesting he didn't care if his brother got pissed on. Ivar rolled his eyes. "I have just as much claim to the throne as any of you. I am a son of Ragnar."

Looking at his brother, as he turned and smiled, Ivar admired how much Ubbe resembled their father. Their oldest brother Björn was the spitting image of Ragar, save the color of his golden blond hair. That hair color he inherited from his mother, Lagertha. But, Ubbe, looked he could have been Ragnar's twin. He had the same bright blue eyes, the same long dirty blond hair. Looking at Björn and Ubbe there was never any question that they deserved the name Ragnarsson.

His other brother Hvitserk looked like their mother, Aslaug, with his green eyes and blond hair. Even if he wasn't the spitting image of his father, resembling Queen Aslaug and her family, the family that was the hero Sigurd and the shield-maiden Brynhildr, was enough to make all of the young maids in Kattegat want to bed him.

Ivar never paid attention to his brother Sigurd to figure out if he resembled either of his parents. To him, Sigurd was a non-factor.

Then there was Ivar. He looked nothing like either of his parents or any of his siblings. While all of his brothers had been some shade of blond, Ivar had dark brown, almost black hair. His eyes were blue like their father's but a different shade. Ragnar's eyes were almost the clear blue of ice melting after a thaw, where Ivar's were the deep blue of the lakes of Denmark. But the thing that made Ivar stand out the most from his brothers was his inability to walk. Ivar learned to get around by crawling, dragging his legs which were bound together, behind him. He was also the angriest and cruelest of his brothers – he harbored a pain that not even he understood. All he knew was he felt better when he could unleash it on others and cause them to feel the pain that burned inside of him.

"The throne should go to the strongest, best suit to rule, Ivar." Ubbe reminded Ivar as he pulled up the waistband of his britches. "That is Björn or have you forgotten?"

"Björn does not want it. He just wants to sail around the world and search for warm places," Ivar spat out.

Shaking his head, Ubbe returned to his seat using his legs to wedge himself into the corner of the ship as it continued to rock from side to side. "It doesn't matter. If he refuses, then it comes to me. I am the next oldest. Then Hvitserk. Then you, Ivar. You have to wait your turn," Ubbe was careful not to mention his little brother Sigurd that Ivar had just killed weeks prior.

"Hvitserk! Hvitserk is more fit to rule over Kattegat then me?" His voice rose an octave at the obscurity of the suggestion. Why couldn't his brothers see him for the born leader that he was? Why didn't Ubbe of all of his brothers, the most sensible and reasonable one of all understand that he would make a better ruler than Hvitserk? "Or I could just kill you all now," Ivar said, taking his dagger out of its boot sheath so he could clean his fingernails.

"Might be easier when we get off these boats," Ubbe mocked. "That is if Odin doesn't take us all first."

"You don't want the throne, Ubbe. Neither does Hvitserk. He just wants to bed every girl from Northumbria to Kattegat." Ivar shook his head, frustrated with his brothers' lack of ambition. They should be more exited to get Lagertha off of the throne. She killed their mother, "Now that we have avenged Ragnar, I will get my vengeance for Mother. And when the throne is empty, it is up to one of us to take it. None of you want it. So, I will take it."

"If it is Odin's will," Ubbe said, before laying his head back and closing his eyes. There was nothing left to do but try to sleep. This would be another day left up to Odin for the crew to find their way back to Kattegat. Njord, god of the sea, was not finished toying with the Great Army. Until he was, there was nothing they could do to get their ships back on course.

Ivar narrowed his eyes at Ubbe. He loved his brother, but it infuriated him that Ubbe did not believe him. Ivar was going to be a King. He could feel it, and he didn't need a Seer to confirm what he already knew. The gods had favored him. He had been chosen, and when it happened, he would make everyone that doubted him pay.

* * *

A woman woke up from a dream with a start. Panting heavily, she wiped the sweat from her brow and sat upright in the bed. Pulling all of her long burgundy red hair to one shoulder, she closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself. She took a moment to touch the amulet on her chest and found herself relaxing slowly.

Placing her feet on the soft rug, she strolled over to the chair to collect her robes. The thick red robe was made from a blend of lamb's wool and cotton, with fur from the dire wolf to line the collar and cuffs. She put the robe onto her naked body and slowly fastened the clasps. Stepping into her red leather boots, he looked at herself in the glass that rested by the washing bowl on the table.

She looked as calm as she always did. But, inside she was shaken. The Lord of Light had given her the most peculiar vision. She wasn't exactly sure what it meant – that much had not been revealed to her. But she knew that there was a change about to happen in the Seven Kingdoms that did not bode well for her charge, Stannis Baratheon. Holding her head up high, she turned on her heel and exited her chamber.

"Ah, Melisandra, we were just making plans for our departure tomorrow," Leaning over a table with a sepia-colored map on top King Stannis Baratheon looked into the red eyes of the red woman standing in in the doorway. "Come, tell me your thoughts on us traveling this way south?"

Ser Davos Seaworth, a tall man with balding grey hair, shook his head and huffed. He hated this plan. He hated how much Stannis had changed. But, most of all, he hated this Red Witch. "My Lord, we should rethink staying at Castle Black. The winter's gonna get harsher. Your wife and your daughter…"

"I'm thinking about my wife and my daughter!" Stannis yelled, cutting Ser Davos off, furrowing his heavy brows in the process. "Winter is coming and they can't survive it here. Castle Black is no place for a child. The horses are dying. The men are freezing and hungry. We have to move south before we lose the entire army – that is if those _things_ don't kill us first!"

Calming strolling over to Stannis and placing her hand on his arm, Melisandra lifted her red eyes to meet his. "My King, the Lord of Light has shown me a vision. It is not exactly clear to me the meaning or how exactly it means to play out, but I do believe Ser Davos is right. We should not leave this place." She moved slowly walking behind Stannis to stand on his left side. "Something or someone is coming from a land far away. Whatever this is, it threatens to change everything in the Seven Kingdoms."

"I have made up my mind," Stannis said slamming his hand on the table. "We leave at first light!" With that, he stormed out of the room, leaving Melisandra and Ser Davos alone.

Curling his lip slightly at her, Ser Davos dared to ask, "You know how I feel about your visions. But, if it is something that will hurt Lord Stannis, I need to know."

Melisandra shook her head, for she could not quite articulate what she saw in her dream. "I cannot answer that as of yet, Ser Davos." Her vision had not given her enough to formulate coherent sentences. All she knew was it had something to do with a towheaded girl, a man with fierce blue eyes on the ground like a serpent, and dragons. She walked around the table and headed toward the door. "Just know, that the night is dark and full of terrors."


	2. Little Orphan Dany

Thoughts weighed heavily on the young woman's mind. How was she, a mere 19-year-old standing at only 5'2", one of the most feared woman this side of the Narrow Sea? She didn't want to be feared. She wanted to be loved – by her brother, by the people, by her khalasar…by her sun and her stars; her beloved _Drogo._

Turning over in her bed, Daenerys Targaryen let out an audible sigh. This was not the life she had imagined. Her brother, Viserys, was the one that wanted to reclaim the Iron Throne, not her. She just wanted to go home. Only, where was home? She was a bastard without a country, driven out by the usurper Robert Baratheon during the slaughter of her family.

Looking out at the rooftops of Meereen, Dany thought back to where her home could be. When she was younger, she used to believe that her home was somewhere in Westeros – though she wasn't sure where. She never felt apart of Westeros. At one point in time, Dany believed her home was the island of Dragonstone. It was the ancestral home of the Targaryens, and where she was born. Her mother had still been heavy with Daenerys in her belly when she escaped with Viserys after King Robert put himself on the Iron Throne. Her mother died giving birth to Dany in that place.

Viserys tried to convince Dany that their home was in Kings Landing. Dany was sure if they ever made it there that he would have spent most of his time parading her around at court like she was a slave on sale at auction. He had filled her head with so many stories about the Red Keep, that she often wondered how he could remember what it looked like seeing as he was so young when they fled. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have tried to use her to gain every favor with every lord and nobleman in all of Kings Landing. The thought made her shutter.

Would she really be connected to Kings Landing? That was where her father had ruled. So much blood had been spilled there. So many people changed allegiances, like the ebbing of the tide. Not knowing who to trust, who was on your side? Plus she had heard they kept the remains of the dragons of the Kings of Old within the Red Keep. What kind of horrible place was that? She would probably be as much a stranger there as she would be on the Wall.

The more she thought about it, the more she knew that her only home was with Drogo. Khal Drogo. How she missed _her_ Drogo. He had been her everything.

She was been totally against it when Viserys had Magister Illyrio arrange the marriage. She only dared to say something one time to her brother and the look in his eyes was enough for her to never utter any other words about the match again. Viserys had beat her before, but she had never angered him enough to '_wake the dragon'_ which he always threatened to do. She did not really know what that meant, nor did she want to find out.

Being the dutiful sister, Dany prepared to marry a complete and total stranger. Not only did she not know this man who was almost 10 years her senior, but they were from two different worlds. They did not speak the same language or share the same customs. She literally did not have any idea what or how to do as a married woman, let alone as a wife of a Khal.

The day Daenerys first saw Drogo, she was petrified. She could not will her feet to move toward him as she stood on the balcony for his inspection. She was just a girl. She had just barely had her blood for a full lunar season, and she was expected to have sex with this _man. _ And that's what he was – a man. Khal Drogo was a huge man, full of muscles and stood at a full 6'4" tall. His hair was the deepest shade of black she had ever seen and hung in a long ponytail that landed on his horse when he sat astride it.

They were each other's polar opposite. He had the most exotic toffee-colored skin and chocolate eyes, compared to Dany's boring pale skin, towhead and blue eyes. Where he was tall and hard, she was short and soft. He was dark and brooding, she was pale and childlike. She could see callouses on his hands as he gripped the reins of his horse. Her hands were as smooth as silk reminding her that she had never done a day's labor in her life. He smelled like sweat, oil, and sand. She smelled like rose water. He spoke in a guttural language that she did not understand. She spoke the common tongue and Old Valyrian, which to him sounded like gibberish. There were no two things that they had in common.

She had no mother or sister to explain to her what was supposed to happen on her wedding night. Only a brother who told her to make sure she pleased him. And that advice was only because Viserys wanted, no _needed _something from her betrothed. Daenerys didn't even know the first things about the Dothraki, except they were violent, nomadic horse lords who probably mounted their women like a steed mounted a mare.

She knew nothing about the man she was to marry and even less than that about sex. And when he took her, she had been afraid and cried. She cried for weeks after that night – every time he took her. She knew people found it pleasurable. The Dothraki were not shy about sex, they had it out in the open for the entire horde to see. _She_ didn't know what she was doing and couldn't communicate with her husband to ask him to show her. She longed for the passion that the bards and poets spoke of, so she sought the help of her slave. She learned to talk to her husband, and how to love him.

Drogo and Dany worked. Somehow, they fit together like hand and glove. Drogo became the air that Daenerys breathed. He taught her love and confidence in herself that she did not know she possessed. She taught him patience and that a Khal did not always have to be ruthless during the quiet times between a husband and wife. There's was a match brought together by the old gods and the new.

And Rhaego…her sweet Rhaego. He was promised to be the Stallion Who Mounts the World, if only he had lived. The thought of the son that she and Drogo created was a memory that was too hard for her to bear. She lost her son and her husband in rapid succession. She went from being a wife and a mother for all of those months to being this...

Losing her two great loves had changed her. She went into the flames as Daenerys Targaryen and came out Daenerys Stormborn – The Mother of Dragons. Rhaegal, Viserion, and Drogon were now her children – her young dragons were so much like children. She cared for them and protected them, and in return they loved her. Her three sons were going to avenge their family name in Westeros.

The Lannister family did not deserve her father's throne and she would reclaim it for her husband and son.

Now she was here. A _Khaleesi_, with her own khalasar, an army of Unsullied soldiers and the Second Sons at her command. Not to mention, she had the entire country of Meereen to liberate from slavers. No wonder she was having trouble sleeping. If only Drogo were here to put his strong arms around her and pull her into his embrace. She would easily be able to drift off into a deep slumber. He would help her strategize of a plan to free the slaves, help the merchants, and punish the masters. Then maybe she could concentrate on a way to recruit more soldiers for her army and plan how to get their horde across the Narrow Sea.

"This is impossible," Dany huffed, sitting up to lift the pitcher of cool water next to her bed. She filled an empty goblet, sat down the pitcher and placed the glass to her lips. Breathing in deeply, she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that the water had not been poisoned before she took a large gulp. "I am no war strategist."

Looking over to her left at her bed, she turned up her lip and shook her head. Daario meant well, but he was not what she needed. He wasn't Drogo. He did not even come close. Why was she allowing him to take company in her bed? She barely enjoyed his company during the waking hours, let alone at night. This had to stop. Loneliness was no cause for desperation.

Carefully, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and place them into waiting slippers. She stood, grabbing the pale blue silk robe from the edge of the bed. She slipped the fabric over her arms, transporting the goblet from one hand to the other, as not to spill the liquid inside. She continued to drink, as she made her way out of her bed-chamber. The nights in Meereen were far cooler than the days, but still warm enough to coat the body in a fine sheen of sweat.

As Dany walked the dimly lit hallways, she pondered where to go. She could see who was in the council room, and perhaps talk strategy on how to get the slavers of Yunkai back under control. Or perhaps they could switch tactics and talk about how to secure enough boats to get her entire army across the Narrow Sea. Perhaps, since the night was so nice, she would take a walk to the clearing and visit with her dragons.

She continued to walk down the hall until she heard voices and the soft flutter of laughter. The light lilt made her stop and smile. As quickly as the laughing started it stopped. Dany slowly rounded the corner and tried to stop the corners of her mouth from turning up into a smile.

Grey Worm stood at attention, arching his back and holding his head at attention, "My Queen."

"Torgo Nudho," Dany nodded at Grey Worm, "Missandei." She turned and looked at her most trusted advisor, then back to Grey Worm. "If you will excuse me for a moment, I need to discuss some things with Missandei," she noticed the lightning-quick flicker of disappointment that flashed across Grey Worm's face and how it disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

Clenching his jaws, he bowed to Daenerys, before stealing a look at Missandei and exiting the room.

A huge smile split Dany's face in two. Grabbing the darker woman by the arm, she ushered Missandei over to the window bench aligned with soft pillows and sat her down beside her. "So…tell me. Are there new developments between you and Grey Worm?" Dany held her goblet in both hands and guided it to her lips. She kept her eyes eagerly trained on her friend.

Missandei was thoughtful in her answer, but as usual, kept her face very natural and her voice calm, "No developments as of yet. But, I have noticed the way he watches me. It is no longer like is protecting me. There is another look in his gaze, now." Playing with the hem of her gown, she furrowed her brows. "I am starting to feel differently toward him. But, I don't know that I should. I don't know that I can…that he can…_if_ we could ever…"

Dany put her hand on her friend's arm to quiet her questions, "In this uncertain time, I know one thing to be true. We all must find love when and where we can. We don't know if tomorrow is promised to us. Stop worrying about if you or he or you both can, _whatever._ Think about what you _can _do, and what you enjoy doing, together." She let her gaze go to the other side of the room, "While we are in Meereen, we have it easy. When we cross the Narrow Sea, things will change. Steal away as much time with him as you can. These times may not be afforded to you, later."

"Is that what you are doing with Daario?" Missandei looked at her lap, then up at Dany's face, afraid she had overstepped her bounds. "I mean no harm, but I do not understand why you share your bed with him. You barely tolerate him."

Dany let out a hearty laugh, "I know!" She sat her goblet on the floor beside her and took Missandei's hand in hers. "I grow bored here. I can listen to the quarrels of farmers all day and think of how to get to Kings Landing. The truth is being here," she motioned around the room, "bores me. We are building a great army that grows stronger by the day. My dragons are growing big and strong. Soon, there will be nothing standing in the way of me taking back the Iron Throne. I have the army to do it, but not the plan. That's why I spend time with Daario. I keep hoping one day something brilliant will come out of his pretty mouth, but nothing ever does."

"What about Ser Jorah? He must have a plan." Missandei chimed in.

"Nothing that will not cause me to lose more than half of the Dothraki, Unsullied and Second Sons. I am not prepared to sacrifice them." Dany stood up and walked over to the large table, picking up one of the war pieces on the map and turned it over in her hand. "I need a tactician. Someone to beat them at their own game. When our army comes, we will give them a fight like they have never seen before." Turning back to her friend, she smiled softly, "So I say again, go, find your man. Enjoy him now. Soon, we will rain fire upon Westeros."


	3. Middle Brother Syndrome

Ivar felt his bare skin scraping against the rough and gritty ground below him. His eyes slowly started to open, but he couldn't focus on anything. Nothing in his body seemed to work right. He wanted to take in a deep breath, but he couldn't. He had the need to cough, but he couldn't do that, either. Panic suddenly settled in and his eyes flew open. Gasping for air, he tried to fight back against those who dragged him. _Damned crippled legs._ If only they worked, he would have been able to thrash them around and create enough force to alert someone that he needed to be turned on his side.

Ivar was going to drown on dry land.

"Wait! Stop!" Hvitserk's voice rang out amidst a cacophony of moans, groans, and choking. "He needs help." Running to reach his brother, Hvitserk saw Ivar's face turning blue, and the panic-stricken look in his eyes. He quickly turned his brother on his side and began pounding on his back.

Ivar coughed harder than he had ever in his life. Tears streamed from his eyes as an ocean full of water escaped his lungs. He took audible gulps of air in between coughing and choking before he rolled onto his back.

"Thank you, Brother," Ivar extended his hand to Hvitserk who in turn helped him slowly up to a sitting position. He looked along the shoreline for any remnants of their fleet. "How many boats survived?" He asked breathlessly, straining his eyes against the sun to look out into the ocean, "Hvitserk?"

Shaking his head, Hvitserk licked his lips. "Was he on the boat with you?" Quickly darting off, Hvitserk went back to the water's edge. "Was he on the boat with you, Ivar?" He yelled back to his brother. Frantically scanning the beach, he called out, "Ubbe! UBBE!"

Ivar began to crawl along the beach and overturn driftwood and other debris as it washed ashore. "Ubbe!" He cried out. He was weak. His arms felt like they were about to give out at any second. Crawling on sand was a feat within itself, but doing immediately after almost drowning made it almost impossible. His muscles were still starved of oxygen. His head was swimming. His breathing nor heart rate had yet to return to a normal rhythm. Every now and again, he was still coughing up saltwater. But, it didn't matter - Ubbe was somewhere among the wreckage.

It was no secret that Ivar would have killed anyone of his brothers for his own ambition. He was Viking, after all. But let it never be said that he didn't love them. He would chase any man or god throughout all of Midgard to avenge them. He didn't hate any of them; not even Sigurd. His death had been an accident. He just wished that they saw things his way and valued him as more than their burden. He wanted to be treated as their equal - one of the Sons of Ragnar. He didn't want to be the little brother that they had to cart and carry around. The one that no one listened to. The one that they thought was too reactionary. He wanted their respect and their love, "Ubbe!"

He happened to glance over to see Hvitserk running into the water to overturn a floating body. Ivar couldn't bear to see if that body belonged to Ubbe. It couldn't be Ubbe. He knew that in his broken bones.

Crawling away from the water, Ivar continued to overturn driftwood. He happened upon a pile of wreckage and started to riffle through it until he finally discovered a body. He sat up and pulled his legs around in front of him. Using as much strength as he could, he turned the limp body over on its side. "He's here. Hvitserk! Help me, he's here!" Ivar tried to move his own body out of the way to lay Ubbe flat. There was a huge gash on his head and a wooden stake embedded in his stomach. He did not appear to be breathing. "Ubbe? I've got you, Brother," he said softly, cradling Ubbe's head.

"Is he alright?" Hvitserk asked out of breath, as he ran over to where Ivar sat. He helped get Ubbe flat and assessed his damages, "Ubbe. Can you hear me?" Falling to his knees, Hvitserk put is ear to Ubbe's mouth checking for breath sounds. _Is this the air or him breathing?_

"Is he alive?" Ivar asked, trying to see around his brother's head. "Hvitserk?" He pushed his brother to side and began to slap Ubbe's face. "Wake up, Ubbe. Odin did not see us victorious in Wessex to have you die here." He looked around briefly to get a sense where _here_ was.

Hvitserk touched the stake that impaled his older brother and noticed how anguish danced on Ubbe's face. "He's alive," he said hurriedly, looking up at Ivar. His brain scrambled trying to figure out what to do next. "We need to remove this. I'll try to find something to keep him warm. Keep pressure here," he pressed his hands just to the sides of where Ubbe was hurt, to show Ivar where to hold.

"You need to find some herbs to fight a fever," Ivar said, holding his hands on Ubbe's body. If he could walk, he would have run to find the herbs himself. He was not a healer by any means, but he had spent enough time with Helga to know what herbs would fight fever and which ones would fight infection.

Hvitserk didn't want to leave Ubbe. He was not only his brother but also his best friend. He didn't know what was worse; leaving Ubbe who might possibly die while he was gone, or leaving him with Ivar. He loved his little brother. There was so much about him that he admired; his strength, tenacity, and keen mind were just the small list of attributes he could name about Ivar. But as much as admired him, he also felt consternation. Ivar was not to be trusted. He had this rage that boiled just below the surface and when he was piqued, his anger knew no bounds. "I'll be back soon. Take care of him, Ivar," he said.

Running at breakneck speed, Hvitserk made his way from the shore to a slope. He needed to find a forest or thicket of some kind. Although he had limited knowledge of herbs, he knew what to look for to make a salve that would save off infection from Ubbe's wounds. How he wished he had spent more time with Floki and Helga as a child. But, as it were, he was too busy running around with Ubbe and desperately trying to raid with Ragnar. Ivar was the one that gained all of the benefits of herbal, spiritual and blood magic from the elders. But, Ivar's body couldn't carry him as fast as Hvitserk's could.

Did he even know what to do with the herbs when he found them? Short of chewing them and placing them into the wound, he wasn't quite sure what else there was. He had been hurt and healed numerous times as a child and on the battlefield, but he had never been the one doing the healing. He always had Ubbe for that. His older brother was the one that took care of him. Ubbe took care of _all_ of them. With Björn being so far apart from them in age, he seemed more like an uncle while they were growing up. They didn't grow close until they were all grown men. It was always Ubbe that acted like the oldest brother – he was the glue that kept them all together. What would he do if he couldn't save Ubbe?

He couldn't afford himself time to think that way.

Finally, Hvitserk made it to a clearing. He walked quizzically around and found himself at the edge of a stone pier. This pier overlooked a lake. and just on the other side of that lake was a city. Putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, he anxiously looked around for any signs of vegetation, while keeping a close eye on the people across the water. He needed to stay out of sight. He didn't want to alert anyone to their location; especially with more than half of their fleet presumably missing at sea and the other half wounded on the beach. Hvitserk took a few steps back to hide in the shadows as he watched the people mill around aimlessly.

He had no idea where they were. Judging from the way they were dressed they were not English or Frankish. Even the low-born people of Wessex and Frankia didn't wear clothes like these. Besides, the weather was much too warm. And, there was no way they landed in Scandinavia. These people weren't Viking. They didn't look, smell or feel Viking. Maybe they had made it to the Mediterranean with Björn.

_"Not now," _he chided himself snapping out of his revelry. Fully concentrating on his mission, he ran from the pier and found a dirt road. He ran for a solid five minutes looking for something, _anything_ that he could use to help Ubbe. Exhausted, he stopped and looked behind him to see how far he had gone. Then he turned back to see how far he still had to go. Before long, he found himself turning around in a complete circle. He let out a frustrated cry toward the sky. He was going to fail. His brother was going to die and was going to be his fault. "Freyr, please."

When he opened his eyes, he looked down to see a fine-tipped blade pointed at his throat. Swallowing hard, Hvitserk held up his hands.

"I don't want to kill you, but I will," A girl who could be no more than five feet tall said, standing stock still. Her round brown eyes never leaving his green orbs as she held him at sword point. She never flinched or drew herself into a fighting stance. Instead, she remained calm and carried on her conversation. "Who sent you?"

Hvitserk looked at the small girl who couldn't be more than a year or two younger than Ivar. She didn't seem to be afraid of him. Her sword hand wasn't shaking, nor did she seem to blink while talking to him. But she should have been afraid. He was far bigger and stronger than him, and the sword she held was a thin thing. How much damage could a puny weapon like that do? He glanced around quickly to assess if there were others with her. When he didn't hear or see any other movement, he assumed she was alone.

He raised his hands slowly and looked her in the eye. He couldn't understand the words she said to him, but he spoke to anyway. "My brother," he panted, "I have to help him. I need herbs."

"I can't understand what you're saying," she said looking Hvitserk in the eye. He was almost a foot taller than her. Handsome enough, with a gentle face. Blond hair, green eyes, with a thin mustache and the beginnings of a beard. He was young – somewhere between the ages of her brothers Jon and Robb. His clothes were strange. Maybe he was a Wilding that had escaped and made it all the way down to Braavos. "We have a problem. I need to leave Braavos and you've seen me. You could tell them I've left. I can't have that." Tightening her grip on Needle, she pushed the blade tip ever so slightly into the fleshy part of his neck, enough for a small trickle of blood. The sight mesmerized her.

Hvitserk smiled at the way she stared at him. She seemed captivated. He always seemed to have an effect on women. Even young, skinny, doe-eyed girls, who were trying to kill him, it seemed. Only, she wasn't trying to kill him. She wasn't attacking; she was trying to scare him. That was her first mistake.

In one fluid motion, he grabbed her sword by the blade, cutting his hand in the process. He pulled her toward him hard enough for her to bounce against his chest. He quickly spun her around disarming her pressed his forearm against her neck. As she started to pull against him, he pulled out his own sword and held it against her face. "I will slice your head from your shoulders if you don't help me."

Settling herself, she took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. "A girl has no name," Arya Stark said aloud and went with Hvitserk willingly.

* * *

"What is this, Hvitserk? I send you to get herbs, you come back with a girl?" Ivar looked at his brother confused. He watched as his brother pushed the small girl down onto the sand next to Ubbe. "Is she a healer?"

Arya surveyed the scene. They looked to have been shipwrecked. In total, there were about 20 men and women, possibly more, all strangers from what she could tell. From the pieces of their boats that had washed ashore, she had never seen anything like them before. She didn't understand the language they spoke or their crude weaponry. They had to be Wildings. They certainly smelled like Wildings. But, what were Wildings doing this far south?

"She was the only person I found," Hvitserk bent down next to the trio. He snapped his fingers in front of the girl's face to bring her attention to his brother. Watching her closely, he shrugged at Ivar, "I grabbed her and brought her with me."

"Ubbe does not need a woman! He needs to be healed," Ivar could feel his blood start to rise. Did Hvitserk think this girl was going to fuck Ubbe back to health? "Did you at least get the herbs?"

Arya looked at the young man sitting on the ground for permission before she touched the sleeping one. When he looked upon her with piercing blue eyes, she lowered hers to look at the other's injuries. She noticed he had a large gash on his head. The wound wasn't actively bleeding but it would need to be sewn. She had already noticed he had an object sticking out of his belly. That would need to be removed immediately or he would be dead in a matter of hours.

This was not in her problem. She was supposed to be leaving Braavos, not getting involved with a bunch of Wildlings. But what if were Jon that needed help and someone left him for dead? She want someone to take pity on him and show him kindness. It wouldn't have to take long. There was a Maester in Braavos that she knew - she could easily procure mustard seed, nettles, and bread mold to make a poultice to stop an infection and get Milk of the Poppy to ease his pain. She could be in and out before Jaqen H'ghar or The Waif could find her to continue their Game of Faces.

Shaking his head in defeat, Hvitserk refused to meet Ivar's eyes. He could that tell his youngest brother was giving him _that_ look. That, _I don't believe you_ look. "I couldn't find anything. All I could find was _her._ But she should know where to find herbs." He pointed at Arya, "I can't understand her and she can't understand me. I brought her here to show her that we need help."

Ivar carefully looked at the girl for some sign of recognition. Was she going to help Ubbe? Was he able to be saved? She wasn't giving away anything with her face. She kept her thoughts and emotions very closely guarded but did not appear to be afraid. She was young and small, and very plain. She must have been poor judging from the simple frock she wore, perhaps a slave. Her shoulder-length brown hair looked greasy and her large brown eyes were huge in her sunken face. If Ivar had to guess, this mousey looking girl was probably a beggar with no home and no family. This girl should not be too much of a problem.

"So, let me get this straight, _Brother._ You went to find herbs but instead, you found a girl. And you brought her here to our camp, where we are temporarily defenseless. So she can go back to her people and tell them where we are, and they can come back with an army?" Ivar looked at Hvitserk, the back to Arya. Did he have to do everything, himself?

Ivar took a deep calming breath, "It's alright, Hvitserk." Turning his head back to Arya, he gave her a beautiful, warm smile, "After you save my brother, I am going to kill you."


	4. The Nameless Girl & The Faithless Priest

_a/n: Sorry it's taken me so long to update this. I'm a slow writer with some things and I hit a bit of a stumbling block...however, I think I'm past it now. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

It had only been three years since she left Winterfell with her father and sister, yet Arya Stark felt like she had aged twenty. The corruption in King's Landing, all of the bloodshed she had seen on the King's Road and all that she had endured in the House of Black and White had managed to turn her youthful spirit into something that she no longer recognized. This _thing_, this person she was becoming, was not someone she liked very much. This new version of herself had become detached, cold, and guarded. How she longed for the days when she was once the impish little girl of the North.

Still every bit as impulsive as before, Arya now knew how to hone her skills. Through her various teachers, fighting instructors and learning to survive while traveling through Westeros, she had learned how to watch and stalk her prey, strategize, and wait for the opportune moment to attack. Arya Stark was no longer the wily, hotheaded, passionate, little girl; she was now patient, dangerous, killer that harbored a penchant for revenge.

Arya sat alone on the beach, away from the camp of Wildlings. Annoyed with their crude language, grunts, and stares, she longed for time to herself. She needed to plan how she was going to escape them and leave Braavos for good. There were still many names on her list to cross off, but her work in this city was over. She had learned all she could from the Many-Faced God and it was time to put that knowledge into action, but not in Braavos. The God of Death had plans for her spread his teachings throughout Westeros and she would need to move soon if she was going kill Cersei Lannister and eventually get back to Jon, on the Wall.

Feeling the warm breeze on her face, she looked up at the setting sun and rising moon. Now, she found it hard to image the Westeros skyline with two moons, when as a child she could see it so clearly in her mind's eye. Her imagination must have been just one more thing that coming south robbed her of – leaving Winterfell had already taken so much from her; her family, her home, herself. Why not her imagination?

Arya closed her eyes against the breeze and the sound of the waves crashing. Toes buried deep in the sand, she lifted her head toward the sky and tried to reclaim some of her childhood memories. She could almost put herself back in her childhood nursery with her siblings, seated on the floor between Bran and Robb while Rickon sat on Sansa's lap. She could hear Old Nan's voice recounting the tale of the famed two moons of Westeros, _"One day there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. A thousand, thousand dragons poured forth and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return."_

When Old Nan would talk, all of the Stark children were left on the edge of their seats.

Arya actually felt goosebumps on her skin at the thought, the same way she did as a child remembering the tale. How exciting that all seemed…_fire breathing_ dragons. All of the children thought that was the best story they had ever heard, except for Sansa, who thought it was utterly preposterous. "That's not true at all. Dragons come from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. That is just some made-up tale from the tribes beyond the Narrow Sea," Sansa had corrected their Nursemaid.

Arya had rolled her eyes at her older sister and throwing a wooden toy at her that nearly missed hitting Rickon. That stunt had caused Sansa to tattle because Sansa _always _tattled, and Arya had bolted upright and chased her older sister around the grounds of Winterfell at breakneck speed. If Sansa would have just taken back what she said about dragon stories being stupid and for boys, and that Arya was a boy for liking such ridiculous legends, then she wouldn't have gotten chased.

She felt her lips turn up into a smile when she remembered hearing that her mother was looking for her antics of running around the grounds like a banshee. In an attempt to hide from her mother, she ran to the stables to find protection in her brother, Jon. Together, they hid in a haystack looking at the sky talking about the dragons and the two moons of Westeros. As the sky started to darken from light to dark blue and the twinkling stars began to dot the black, Arya looked over at her brother and asked if he thought the stars were the eyes of the dragons that had died before them.

Jon simply shrugged and mussed her hair, to which she gave him the biggest hug a girl of eight could give her big brother. Jon didn't make fun of her or tease her too badly. He listened to her and let her dream. He encouraged her and gave her courage. He let her imagine and be wild. Jon believed in her.

If things were only as simple as believing in dragons being born of the moon and hiding from her mother in the hay with Jon.

_Jon._ How she missed her eldest brother. Jon Snow was the one person in all of the Seven Kingdoms that understood her. He got her even more than her father did. Always her ally Jon felt more to her like her real sibling than a half-brother. Parentage or station be damned, he understood what it was like to be an outsider and never once treated her like she couldn't be anything in the world that she wanted to be.

Arya could feel herself cringe at the words coming from Septa Mordane's lips as she would stand over Arya pointing her finger at her in disapproval, _"No matter the House, the role of the Lady remains the same. It is a Lady's must learn needlework – being able to embroider your House's sigil is a skill that will be left up to you and ladies-in-waiting. Straight lines are imperative. Imagine your husband's banners marching off to war and with an unrecognizable sigil. Really, Arya, I expect more from a Lady Stark of Winterfell." _

Well, who wanted to be a Lady?

As a Lady, her duty would be to have her father match her to a Lord or Steward of a prestigious house to secure an alliance. She would be expected to bear her husband many children, boys, gods be good, that would carry on her husband's house's name so they may be strong wardens and banner-men if ever called on by their Liege Lord or the by the King, himself. Where was the honor in that?

Arya would have rather been swallowed up by dragon fire than have to endure that. Sansa was the one that was interested in all of that stupid stuff. _She_ was the one that wanted to be married to a dumb prince, that would leave her to go off to battle while she sat at home sewing him a flag with their House sigil on it. Arya had always imagined herself being in the battle fighting side by side with the prince.

As the wind shifted Arya's head turned slowly at the sounds coming from her left. The fine grains of white and gold sand began to carry on the breeze causing her to squint to avoid getting it in her eye. Hands in the sand, she carefully felt around for something, anything, sharp to use as a weapon. The blond Wildling had taken Needle from her leaving her virtually defenseless. If she were going to protect herself from a threat, she was going to have to rely on her cunning to do so. She would need to devise a plan to get back her blade and away from these people to carry out her mission.

* * *

Heavy ropes bound his hands and feet making it even harder to walk on the sand. He was hungry, thirsty, and felt as though his limbs were about to give out at any second. His left eye was swollen shut, it was sure to have an infection from the wound he had sustained during the shipwreck and he was sure that his right shoulder was dislocated by the awkward way his arm hung lower than his left. But, he would not show any signs of pain. He would not give them the satisfaction.

Holding his head high he smirked as he was forcefully pushed toward the group of men sitting by the fire. With a smirk on his face, Heahmund Bishop of Sherborne gave a mocking bow toward the man sitting in the middle, _"Heathen King."_

Ivar smiled pleasantly at his prisoner, "Bishop Heahmund! What a welcomed surprise." He let his eyes sweep over the man's appearance and shook his head at his injuries, "You don't look well. Having a rough time?" Ivar returned his gaze to the fire and resumed poking it with a stick, "It seems as if _your_ god has forsaken you, yet again. While _my _gods…they continue to show me favor."

Bishop Heahmund blinked intense blue eyes before raising his bound hands to his forehead to swat at a sand fly buzzing near his face, "Forsaken me?"

"Yes. Your god has delivered you back to me – brought you all this way, mostly unharmed, through storms and shipwreck, miles from home only to end up here," Ivar waved his hand around the beach to signify their unknown land, "on this beach as my slave once again." Raising his water skin to his lips and taking a long slow drink, he made a show of wiping the cold liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, "It seems I'm his favorite son now, Bishop. Not you."

Heahmund ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips at the sight of the skin of water. He had to still himself from lurching forward and pulling the pouch from the heathen's hands. He could almost feel the cool liquid in his mouth, soothing his dry burning throat, but he wouldn't move. No matter how much his body ached for water, he wouldn't give the heathen the satisfaction. Instead, the bishop stood tall and looked around the meager camp unimpressed, "And it seems to me, heathen, that the Lord God is punishing you for all of your sins. Your army is scarce, ships in ruin. You hardly have enough food or supplies to care for those in your company. Yet you believe that you are favored? It is your hubris… "

"Enough!" Ivar's voice carried down the beach causing Arya to turn toward the noise. He let a low chuckle escape his lips, "Take the _Christian_ over to the remains of the ships and tie him up there. I have not decided his fate, yet." He looked over to Hvitserk who was holding the Bishop under his good arm, ready to take him to his new spot on the beach. "Fetch the slave girl to look at his wounds."

Heahmund smiled and ducked his head in a bow at Ivar before being yanked off in a direction away from the camp. Letting his eyes roam around the Viking's meager base he made note of weaknesses in their defenses, and possible escape routes. Once he was settled he would have more time to watch and plan how he would once again get away from the heathen horde.

Arya watched silently as the blonde Wildling led the new prisoner over to the wreckage and tied him to the mast of a ship. Where did these people come from? Everything she had witnessed from them went against everything she had ever been told about their kind. They traveled by ship, they had prisoners…were not they supposed to be nomads that traveled through snow-covered mountains on foot? Didn't they kill everything in their path? Why would they take a bound prisoner and tie him to a ship? Was this man special? A deserter perhaps? Wouldn't that be more reason to kill him?

She was roused from her musings as the blond man quietly approached her stopping just short of where she sat to look out at the ocean. He didn't say anything to her, instead, he breathed in the salt air and released it slowly. He squatted next to her and ran his hands over the sand, picking up pebbles before he stood and tried to skim them over the rolling tides.

"You need to heal the Bishop," Hvitserk said flinging his first pebble against the rolling water, knowing this was a futile exercise, but happy to have something to do other than look at the girl. Talking to her was frustrating. He couldn't understand her, and she did not attempt to try to understand him. The more patient he tried to be in communicating with her, the more stubborn she seemed. "He has a cut on his head."

Arya turned to him with furrowed brows and blinked, "Where's my sword?"

"I think his arm may be broken." Hvitserk finished touching his arm in an attempt to try a different means of communication with the native peasant. "Ivar wants you to fix the Christian Priest – who knows why. And it is time to check on Ubbe. Then you may eat," he rested his hand on the hilt of his broadsword as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Arya smiled, "Yes, my sword, Needle. I want it back." She slowly started to stand, wiping the sand off of her legs and hands. "It is very important to me," she placed her hand over her heart, "It's mine and I want it back."

Hvitserk looked at her stance and tilted his head slightly. He raised his hand to his chest and lifted his chin, "Hvitserk," he dipped his head in her direction for her to repeat her name. Whatever she had said before was too many words for him to try to pick out which one had been her name.

Arya rolled her eyes. What he mocking her or trying to tell her the location of her sword? All she needed him to do was to take her to it. She folded her arms against her chest and looked toward the camp, "Where is Needle?" She spoke slower and louder for the Wildling to understand her.

"Nee-del?" He nodded in her direction with a smile. He pointed to his chest again and dipped his head, "Hvitserk." When the slave didn't respond, he shook his head in frustration. "Never mind," he gently turned her around by the shoulder and headed her around in the direction of the campfire. "Come, you need to see about Heahmund, then check on Ubbe."

Bishop Heahmund was silent as the two figures approached him from further down the beach. Trying to hide the disdain in his face at the sight of one of the sons of Ragnar, he let his gaze fall on the small girl that accompanied him. She was unfamiliar to him, but judging from her look she was no one of import; probably the slave the heathen Ivar spoke of, though she did not have the look of a Northmen.

"Nee-del," Hvitserk said turning to Arya, "Bishop Heahmund is a prisoner. Tend to his wounds."

Upon hearing the name of her sword, Arya looked back at the blond man in front of her, "Yes. Needle. Where is my sword?"

Bishop Heahmund looked at the child quizzically, holding his head a slight angle. The language she spoke was odd, but he thought he was able to pick out a word or two. What she spoke reminded him of Latin, Frankish and a Romanian language he had studied some time ago._ "My sword?"_

Arya turned to face the priest, her eyes growing large in hope. "Do you speak the common tongue?" she asked, praying to the old gods and the new that he did. Already twelve moons had past and she still knew little to nothing about the people whose company she kept. She didn't know if they were friend or foe. She hadn't yet decided when she left if she should add the one that didn't walk to her list, or if she should leave them in peace. More importantly, she needed to know if they had heard any news on her brother Jon Snow at the Wall.

Kneeling beside the bishop, Arya stretched her fingers toward his arm and watched as he pulled back his shoulder with pride. This movement received him a swift kick in the boot from the blond Wildling, "Are you always such a shit?" Arya yelled, turning her head toward Hvitserk, "This man is hurt and you're kicking him."

Heahmund let out a soft laugh as he licked his dry lips. He raised his hand to signal that he was fine. He thoughtfully planned out how to form the words he wanted to say to her, mixing the languages that hers most resembled. He could only hope that she would be able to understand him, "Yes, he is. He is a heathen and has no compassion in his black heart."

Arya looked at the dark-haired prisoner and considered his words. His words didn't mean much, they sounded more like a toddler learning to speak. His sentence structure was off, and some of the words did not make much sense, but there was still enough there that she was able to piece together what he was trying to say, "You can understand me?" She watched intently as he thought about what she asked and then nodded slowly. Excitedly, she sat up on her knees and placed her hands on her lap, leaning forward to grill him, "Are you all Wildlings from North of the Wall? How did you end up in Braavos? Have you heard any news of the Knights Watch or what's going on in the North? What about the Lannisters?"

"You can speak to the slave?" Heahmund watched as Hvitserk pulled the slave girl to her feet. Instead of answering the other man, he remained impassive, looking out at the ocean. "Answer me, Christian!" Cutting his eyes up and to the left, the priest smiled before gently bowing his head and saying prayers of thanksgiving to God. Not only had he been spared from drowning in the storm, but he had been brought to a camp where there was someone with whom he could communicate. If the heathens couldn't talk to her that was not his concern.

"Until you feel like being more cooperative, your wounds will have to tend themselves," Hvitserk said roughly pulling the slave girl away toward the fire where the others sat, no doubt to tell Ivar that the Bishop could communicate with their captive.

* * *

Heahmund sat uncomfortably against the mast watching the dying embers of the fire. Judging from the placement of the moon in the sky, it was still the small hours of the morning. The Viking encampment was quiet with only a few warriors on patrol. His hands were bound awkwardly, mostly due to the dislocation in his shoulder and the pain in his eye was unbearable, but he would not complain. These small pains were his penance for being weak of body and spirit.

During the storm that brought the ship to this island, there had been times when he had doubted that God would see him through and he had been ready to give up and surrender to death. Instead of praying and believing in God's plan, he allowed weak thoughts to enter his mind and for the briefest moment, he had almost considered calling on Odin or Thor to calm the storms so that the ship would not capsize.

How could he, a priest, a bishop even, fathom asking a false god for help? He wasn't a man that feared easily and could not recount another time when he felt desperate. Even still a truly devout man would never consider calling on a savior other than his own. Here he was a warrior for God, and there he was acting like one of the scared sheep in his flock instead of the shepherd.

A warrior for God – that was an oxymoron. The Gospels of the New Testament, devoted to the miracles of the Son of God, the Lord Jesus Christ, explained how He came to the world as the Lamb of God to die for cleansing men of all sin. It was because Jesus paid the ultimate sacrifice man's sins were forgiven and he could live life eternal in Heaven with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The miracle of Jesus's birth, life, death, and resurrection is what put an end to God's display of wrath toward mankind.

Learning these lessons in seminary, and being one of the few that could read the Holy Bible, Heahmund, Bishop of Sherborne fully understood the Word of God. But, the part he could never fully wrap his mind around was why he could never put down the desire to raise a sword and follow the Word. When Rome came to him and told him they wanted him to be a warrior priest, he should have refused, citing that an all-powerful God could raise and destroy an entire nation in a blink of an eye did not need men to raise an army in His name. Or that Jesus, in the New Testament, was a peaceful man and never raised arms. So why, would God need soldiers? But, he didn't question. He answered the call without hesitation. He picked up his Bible and his sword and pretended not to see the hypocrisy.

But he kept quiet because otherwise, he would have to admit to himself how much he liked the art of war. There was something about being the first one on the battlefield that made him feel powerful. When he commanded an army, he felt more of a sense of purpose than he ever felt leading a church. He would much rather take a life than say a prayer to try to save someone's immortal soul. Heahmund was born to kill – doing so for God, just seemed like a worthy cause.

He wasn't a pious man, he was killing machine. He was a captain that needed an army and what better army to fight for than God's? If that meant that he had to spend time in seminary and study the teachings of the church, he didn't mind. Men like him, that had a certain, proclivity for the finer things in life, found that the cloth provided him with all that head desired. The church provided him food, shelter, land, station, respect, wealth, and though he would never outwardly admit it, women.

He liked hearing the sound of the blade tear through the soft flesh of a man's neck. He liked the feel of his steal as it so easily pierced a through a soldier's belly. He enjoyed the irony smell of dirt and blood that carried on the breeze in the morning, the day after a fight as they walked the battlefield looking for survivors. He even enjoyed watching his fellow soldiers as they mercifully put wounded warriors out of their misery as they scoured the grounds. While he preferred the adrenaline-driven feel of battle, watching a blade pierce through a squirming body and the life force slowly leak out was always a welcomed sight.

But he was nothing like the _heathens_. He was righteous. Though a God-fearing man, he was not religious, even though he was a priest. Birth order and circumstance forced him into a life of the cloth. Being born the youngest son of Lord Harrowing it was his birthright to join the church, just as it was his eldest brother Hannud to inherit their father's land and title and his other brother, Harlund, to apprentice for a King's Knight. Although he would have been more suited for the knighthood, Heahmund understood the importance of duty, and his duty demanded that he follow God and the church, no matter what he wanted personally.

If he were honest with himself, Heahmund would admit that his love of war far overshadowed his love of God. But, as a good Christian and most importantly a priest he had to make everything in his life about the concept of God. His flock wouldn't know or care if he didn't fully believe, only if he could make them believe. As long as they believed that he could save their immortal souls that were what was important. It didn't matter that he was committing sins of his own by bedding every attractive woman in town – he would convince her that she could pray to the Virgin for forgiveness. Nor did it matter that he committed atrocities when he fought – he did all of these things in God's name.

So why did he hate the Northmen so much? Everything they did out in the open, were the things he did in the dark and repented to God for in shame. Why should those Godless men have the right to live the way that he was meant to, if only he were so brave, and who were they to tell him that he wasn't brave? What moral code did they live by? They didn't believe in duty. They didn't know what it was like to have to give up everything you wanted because it was what was expected of you. Heathens didn't have a duty, and because of that, they lived in chaos. All of their chaos led to…freedom.

Too much of this freedom made these heathen Vikings think they could do whatever, whenever they pleased; take from whomever they saw fit. They had no rules. No governance. They needed law and order. They needed God. They were lawless, loveless men without a moral compass. And prisoner or not, he would be that morality for these poor sinners or kill them all.


End file.
